


Disarmed

by Castillon02



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Hair Brushing, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2018-12-30 16:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12112674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02
Summary: Bond and Q get captured; Q has an unexpected backup plan.





	Disarmed

**Author's Note:**

> Another ficlet written for 007 Fest 2017.

“Disarm them,” Wollstone ordered. “Then put them in cell D. The cold one. They can have a little hint of what their demise will be like when we skin them on the ice tomorrow.” She leveled a last glare at them and left with a haughty sweep of her ugly velvet cape.  

Bond darted a glance at Q to see how he took the threat. 

Q’s hands were trembling, but his eyes stayed steady, and his lip curled with disgust as he watched Wollstone’s retreat out of their assigned room. Her coercive genius recruitment scheme had personally offended him; he’d been all too pleased that he was one of the only people at Six with the intellectual qualifications to pair up with Bond so they could infiltrate her little facility and take down the operation. 

Unfortunately, their combined efforts hadn’t been enough to fool every genius in the place, and eventually one of the brighter ones had let something slip. 

Beatrice, Wollstone’s head of security, started to pat Bond down while her goons held their guns at the ready. 

“You know, if you wanted to get your hands on me I’m sure we could arrange something else,” Bond commented, only to be pistol-whipped with his own Walther. 

Good. If they were focusing on his mouth, they might not pay as much attention to Q. 

Beatrice took Bond’s gun, the knife in his ankle holster, his shoes, and his watch. “Packing light, huh,” she commented. “And I’m guessing your nerdy buddy has some pretty empty pockets, what with Mr. Big around to protect his virtue. What do you got?” she asked, eyeballing Q. “A weenie little taser?” 

“Er…” Q said. He darted a chagrin-filled glance at Bond.

Had Q really not equipped himself?

“Not even a taser?” Beatrice asked skeptically, and she started to go through the motions of patting Q down. 

Beatrice's biceps were the size of Q’s head; Bond stayed still. 

Only moments after starting her pat-down, Beatrice was yanking up Q’s dress shirt to reveal a belly holster and a Walther PPK. “Well, well,” she said. “Got us a genius who thinks he can shoot. Is that all, genius?” 

“Er,” Q said again. 

Two stun guns, four multi-tools of various sizes, one collapsable baton, one strip of unidentified pills, and one asthma inhaler that Beatrice said she “wasn’t taking a goddamn chance on” later, Q had been stripped down to his boxers and undershirt, revealing a surprisingly muscular pair of legs and what would in another scenario be a delightful amount of skin. 

Bond looked at the pile of equipment on the floor and raised his eyebrows at Q. Really? He got sent out with a gun and a radio–and oh, a knife this time, what a luxury–and Q got to keep an armory on his person? 

Q gave a tiny shrug. 

“Chop chop, let’s go,” Beatrice said, motioning for them to move towards the door. “We don’t get DVR up here in the arctic and I’m not going to miss  _Strictly Come Dancing_  because of you two.” She tossed Q his jumper. “You can have that back,” she said, “but your trousers still feel suspiciously heavy, and I don’t have time to bust out every seam looking for your contraband. So get walking, leggy.” She leered at Q.  

***

Q’s leg hair started standing on end the instant they walked into Cell D. If Bond had to guess, he’d say that the unusually large ventilation grate in the righthand corner had been put in specifically to channel the icy outside air into the room. Meanwhile, the fluorescent lights in the ceiling beat down on them relentlessly–this was a cell for people who weren’t meant to get a good night’s sleep. 

“Have a chill last night, you two,” Beatrice cooed. She chuckled at her own joke before leaving with her two goons, slamming the door behind her. 

Ugh–American humor. Bond exchanged a contemptuous glance with Q and started shrugging out of his jumper. “Here,” he said, tossing the blue cashmere in Q’s direction. “Cover your legs with this.”

“And you can cover yourself with me,” Q said, making a beeline for the dilapidated mattress shoved into the corner of the cell that was least in the path of the chill stream of air coming through the vent. “As much as I hate to say it, this is a situation in which body heat may be invaluable.” 

“Well, I’m not going to argue,” Bond said with his best leer, relieved that Q was going to be sensible about staving off their impending frostbite. 

Q rolled his eyes. “I thought not,” he said. 

Bond sat down on the mattress, criss-crossed his legs, and gestured welcomingly at his own lap. 

Without ceremony, Q settled on top of him, squirming until his bony hips found a comfortable perch on Bond’s thighs. He then pulled Bond’s sweater over his bunched up legs, stretching the fabric horribly but somehow managing to cover himself all the way down to his forest green socks. His back and arse radiated heat against Bond’s body. 

It was still cold, but they might just survive the night without freezing their balls off. 

“My hair is messy,” Q commented after a few moments, breaking the silence. 

 _What else is new?_  Bond wanted to ask. 

Then Q added, “Will you brush it for me? Carefully. I’m a bit  _tender-headed_.” As he spoke, his fingers tapped out the Morse letter for Q on Bond’s knee. 

Tender-headed. Hair brushing. Q wasn’t seriously implying… 

“Worried about your hair at a time like this?” Bond asked, tsking. “You’re a vain little boffin, aren’t you?” As he spoke, however, he ran his fingers through Q’s hair, lightly stroking. 

“Mmm,” Q hummed, seemingly with pleasure. He arched his head forward as if to give Bond better access, and–there. Hidden in the depths of Q’s hair, directly above Q’s nape: a slender black device that Bond might’ve mistaken for a fancy bobby pin if he didn’t know what Q was capable of. 

“Hello, beautiful,” Bond murmured, keeping up his stroking motions while leaning over Q to make sure any cameras in the room wouldn’t catch him brushing the gadget out of Q’s hair and slipping it into a trouser pocket.    

Then, lacking much else to do, he continued to brush Q’s hair. After all, it wasn’t exactly neat yet. 

Q stiffened as he felt Bond’s hands return, but only for a moment. From the throaty little noise he made a minute later, he really did like having his hair fussed over.  

Much like he had with Q’s gadget, Bond tucked that little fact away until he could find a good time to use it. 

L-O-C-K-P-I-C-K? Bond tapped out against the nape of Q’s neck. 

Y, Q replied on his knee. E-T-C. 

And where Q was involved, ‘etc’ usually meant a hell of a lot. 

They’d get out of this. They’d take down Wollstone and rescue the other geniuses. And then Bond would get Q alone somewhere, strip him down in a much sexier way than Beatrice had, and see what other noises he could coax out of him. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Constructive criticism is welcome <3


End file.
